This year is all about the dad!

Honestly, childbirth isn’t what it used to be. I’m not talking about the 19th century, when the mortality rate was higher than the Zambian gross domestic product, but rather in comparison to when our children were born a few decades ago. Only now that they are having little people of their own, I realise quite how different the whole experience is.

When our kids were born, dads didn’t move into the hospital. We were there for the birth, we did what we were expected to in the delivery room, and then we left.

Whether it was because they were just another mouth for mom to feed, or because no-one had paternity leave, I don’t know. But I recall being banished from that room as soon as was practical so that my wife could get on with the very important job of being a mother. It didn’t take a relationship expert to see that much like a Praying Mantis, I had outlived my usefulness, and unless I wanted my head bitten off, the office was the smarter place for me to be.

“Why do you want to move into the hospital room?” I asked my son, ahead of their child’s birth. “Because it’s my child, dad!” was the answer. We were at his home for dinner, and I was starting to experience that familiar and painful prodding in my thigh, courtesy of my wife who was next to me and who wanted me to stop talking. She has powerful thumbs. “Doesn’t he know that it’s still his child even if he doesn’t sleep over at the hospital,” I mumbled to her in a stage whisper. Her rolled eyes made it clear I wasn’t convincing anyone of anything.

“I guess then no-one should tell him about skin-to-skin bonding” announced my son, now relishing in my discomfort. “What’s that” I asked, taking the bait. “It’s when the dad lifts his shirt so that his baby can bond with him. Skin to skin.” The looks at the table confirmed that he wasn’t making this up. “When?” I asked for clarification. Apparently, it can be in the room later. Or even, in the actual delivery room.

I was now well over the edge, imagining my son and his baby performing some kind of shirtless new-age ritual, while his poor wife, who had carried the kid for nine long months and then finally given birth, is left to her own devices. Because in 2024, it’s about the dad.

“I want you to know, that as much as you want to, you will never breastfeed,” was my final word. After which, for fear of my life, I sat in silence wondering how my late father, who hadn’t even been at the birth of his children, would have taken the news of his skin-to-skin grandson moving into the hospital room to fully experience the magnificence of childbirth.

The days of dads smoking a cigar while pacing up and down outside the delivery room are thankfully over. The shared responsibility and the fact that dads are involved in the lives of their children from day one is wonderful. They can do many things. They can love, nurture, and they can connect. But at the end of the day, no amount of skin-to-skin bonding will ever make a dad lactate.